Katya Part I

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Part I

Her name was Katya. 
Thirty, divorced, no kids. 
She had an apartment in the center—old but polished, like she’d inherited it from some distant relative she never cared for. High ceilings, intricate moldings, and that chandelier, always casting a dim, golden glow, soft enough to flatter everyone. She was blonde, tall, with a body that moved like she knew everyone was watching. Pale skin, icy eyes that pinned you down, but with a smile that promised something more if you were lucky. 

She worked at customs, 
but her real job was weaving a spell over her little circle of admirers. Every Friday night, like clockwork, Katya would gather us — men, women, whoever she felt like that week. She didn’t care about the balance; she liked the mess, the uneven dynamics. Everyone brought something: wine, caviar, grapes so ripe they practically bled when you bit into them... I brought whiskey. Always whiskey. She pretended it was her favorite, though I suspect it was more for show, like most things in her life.

We’d all settle into her Soviet-era furniture—cracked leather, faded velvet—and the night would begin. Katya loved her routines. First, poetry. Balmont. She’d stand in the center of the room, swaying ever so slightly, her voice low, pulling the words out slowly, letting them hang in the air like smoke. Her fingers would trace invisible lines across her collarbone as she read, her lips just barely curving around each verse. It wasn’t the poetry that captivated the room. It was her. The way she moved. The way her voice made you want to lean in closer, catch every word, even if the words themselves didn’t matter. 

She knew it, too. 
Everyone in that room knew why they were really there, 
and it wasn’t for Balmont…